In the time it took the sun to reach its highest point in the sky, Daniel learned three things.
First, he was not a natural archer. In fact, heâd go as far as to say he was an unnatural archer. A denatured archer. Whatever the opposite of a natural archer was. He hit precisely zero targets in their few hours of training. His shoulders ached, a flaw of his form, Ghost pointed out, and he had vibrant purple bruises on his forearm, earned through more form failings that were significant enough his training bracers couldnât protect him.
Second, he was also not a natural at scaling platforms, nor descending them. He was passable at crossing them, so long as they kept themselves nice and flat.
Third, he was hilariously out of shape by every metric Reborns measured themselves by, to such an extent that even Ghostâs enthusiasm had taken a hit. Pulling his weight up platforms was a hassle, jumping their distance was near impossible, and the first time his impromptu mentor broke out weights, the pity smile he received was embarrassing enough to last a lifetime.
When the sun dipped past its high point, the training session pivoted, Ghost abandoning any pretense of weapon training and focused on working his body in basic ways, trying to catch the out of shape Earthling up to the baseline needed to not die fighting anything larger than a kitten.
They ran laps, stretched into pretzel shapes, worked muscles Daniel had never felt, let alone trained, and by the end of the day, the return to his room was a monumental hike his pained muscles survived only through the promise they could collapse into bed after.
As he lay in the small twin bed, legs aflame, arms unable to lift above his head, stomach grumbling in complaint against his single meal of the day, he watched the lone window of his room. He could see a sliver of the sky, shadows of clouds passing over the wide yellow moon and dimming it in the process.
The quiet moment gave him the opportunity to miss home, an unfamiliar feeling that sparked a strange realization. Heâd never missed home before. He wasnât even sure what he was missing â certainly not his dingy studio apartment with its stained carpet and leaky faucets. It couldnât be his underpaid office job with the grumpy receptionist who refused to learn his name nor the stale candy she put out. It would take a madman to miss the subway, with its rancid smells, discomforting stains, and cramped rides.
And yet, he missed home. A vague sense of home, a comfort of familiarity that he didnât know he had until he found himself impossibly far away from it.
He rolled on to his side, back to the window, closing his eyes in a futile attempt to push away restlessness.
It was a cruel joke to miss something he never wanted. He wondered if it would change anything, if he would change anything, if he could go back now. Watching a man die gave him perspective, but a deep lump in his gut reminded him heâd spent thirty years on Earth, every day bringing perspective that he never used. Was he different now? Would he ever be?
These wolfish questions and their gnashing teeth chased him in circles until he finally fell asleep.
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Stabbing pain in Danielâs left hand ripped him out of his dreams, his core spasming as he jerked up right, reaching at the hurting hand.
The first light of day had barely kissed the sky outside his window. A new day, another alarm from Svel to remind him there was no light to be wasted.
But he hurt. Not just his hand, but every inch of his body that could feel at all screamed when he moved. A stiffness and ache from a workout regime of an intensity heâd never tried in his life. He didnât see how he could make it down the stairs to breakfast, let alone through another day of Ghostâs workouts.
He fell back onto his pillow. âNo chance Svel, rest day.â
The scars burned again and he lifted the hand rather than his body, arm reluctant to obey the command. He glared at the pale runes and the lumpy raised skin. âIâm serious, I donât think I could get down those stairs if someone carried me.â
Pain sank down his arm like a burning stone pushed through his flesh, a sinking ember that cooked his insides. Frustration twisted his face, a curse on his lips, anger at his patron for not understanding his limits.
The pain eased and returned, a pulsating insistence. He was moments from snatching up the rib to demand she stop when her message sank in, just as the pain had.
He stared at his forearm, the thin line of gray flesh a dark ring against his own. Soreness was just muscle damage â microscopic tears to be mended. If her flesh could heal a broken arm, it could heal tiny tears, right?
He pushed a thumb into the skin, feeling the smooth texture that blended so naturally into him. The hunger that came with her gift scared him, but that had been a broken bone. Perhaps if the healing was less intensive, the hunger would be gentler too.
Daniel closed his eyes, holding his left wrist with his right. He wasnât confident how to activate it, but fighting it from healing the injuries after the bandit scrap had been as simple as refusing. And so, he invited it in, requested it, and asked for relief.
The tension release was immediate, a rush of warmth that soothed the scream of his bodyâs aching muscles. He opened his eyes and the gray flesh on his arm had lightened, but only marginally so, and his muscle soreness was gone. In its place was the gnaw of hunger, a tight cramp in his stomach not just from the absence of a dinner, but the presence of a deeper thirst, a pressing need. But it was easy enough to swallow and push down, for now.
âOk,â Daniel conceded. âNo rest day.â
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Danielâs second day at the Dungeon Crawling Team headquarters was the establishment of a routine.
He went for breakfast, eating alone in a near-empty mess hall, the only other occupants sporadic Crawlers that he didnât recognize and that didnât seem eager to talk to him. The meals were primarily curries and rice, fresh and dried fruits offered on the side, a repeat of his first meal. He got the impression the cooks werenât breaking out the good stuff for the ghosttown the DCT currently was.
After his silent meal, he sought out the courtyard, disappointed to find no one he recognized present, only nameless Crawlers that spared no time for the new Reborn. He didnât dare to try any weapons training without someone to teach him, so instead he focused on general fitness.
The upper ring was occupied, or closed, Danielâs firm stamps on the ground-glyphs yielding nothing, so he settled for the middle ring. It was similar in structure, but didnât have the phantoms Ghost had practiced shooting at on the first day. Instead, the large floating circle featured many platforms of varying but unchanging height, a simple parkour track around its edge with weights and plain dummies in the middle of the ring.
The upper ring was coveted for its customizability, then, but that was fine for Daniel. The middle ring had what he needed to practice.
And that he did. He ran the parkour track, racking up bruises as he slipped, crashed, and fell again and again. The first time he made a clean jump, landing on a higher platform from a lower one with a strength in his legs that was new to him, he cheered to no one. His happiness took a hit when his shin did, the next jump a near-miss that sent all the force into the poor bone.
The day crept on like that, no clear purpose to his training besides being slightly less embarrassing the next time he saw Ghost.
When the sun set, Daniel finally left the ring, limping back to his room with an empty and ravenous stomach. He needed more than one meal a day, his hunger barely touched by the fruit he snacked on while documenting the day in his notebook.
But without a clear way to earn money, spending extra tokens or currency on food felt like a privilege he hadnât earned yet. It was a frugal life until he could guarantee a meal after his tokens were up.
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He closed his notebook, few details to add from the day, and ground a token into the Dust System, paying for another day. Then he slept.
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The next three days passed in a nearly identical manner. Heal soreness, binge on breakfast, burn off every calorie he consumed, bathe, write, sleep.
On the dawn of the fourth day, it wasnât Svel that woke him, but hunger. His stomach cramped and shuddered in protest of its treatment, but worse than that was the Hunger. The ravenous need that came after that dayâs healing of yesterdayâs soreness.
Danielâs mind lurched, a sickening squelch and watering in his mouth as he thought of sinking his teeth into anything. His own arm had begun looking appetizing, the skin slick with salty sweat, the meat tender underneath.
He staggered out of bed and ripped the rib from its sheath around his neck. Svel sat behind him, legs neatly crossed and folded.
âA weapon would be a good start.â
A weapon. Of course, a weapon to kill something, that was the only way forward. Spit dribbled out of his mouth, a hunch to his back that made him hang his head forward. He was faster now, stronger, in increments, but he needed to hunt something, needed to kill it, and that demanded a weapon. The rib was sharp, it could stab and rip apart flesh, if he shoved it in deep enough, if he twisted its point into the soft parts of a human, into their juicy arteries.
The rib. He fell back against the wall, sliding down it as he clutched the rib in both hands. It was so warm. It was fed, unlike him, its whiteness tinted pink, a peculiar plumpness to the vampiric bone. It had drunk its fill, and he was so thirsty.
He bit at its end, a squish of crimson gushing into his mouth, wetting his painfully dry mouth. The stored blood slid down his gullet in a satisfying sludge, but once it touched his stomach, the haze cleared. His eyes widened and he gagged, spitting the bone and blood from his mouth in the same reflex.
But no matter the disgust, he couldnât bring himself to toss the rib aside.
âWell, I suppose thatâll work in the meantime,â Svel said, peering over at him. âBut a weapon you can wield is really the best start. Care to wish for it?â
Daniel didnât answer her, couldnât answer her, a wish for nausea in his sickened mind that wasnât granted. He wanted more blood, more flesh, more anything, but the Hunger was placated enough for him to sheath the rib and seek the mess hall.
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He ate like a rabid animal, generous scoops of a meaty curry demolished in moments. The few Crawlers in the cafeteria gave him a wide berth, a few curious but wary glances sent his direction that he hardly noticed.
He got seconds for the first time, the single attendant cycling out the food giving him a distasteful look, but not objecting. His mind was settling enough to make notes again, and he realized heâd need to write that down. A social faux paux? Against the rules? Or was he not the first to act this way?
Daniel shoveled down the second tray of food, pocketing dried fruit with the feeling it was a pointless endeavour. His stomach hurt by the end, engorged and bloated from a binge unlike any other. He sat with the feeling for a while, alone at a corner table in the mess hall, letting the day light pass him by. He watched unfamiliar faces pass in and out of the long, flat building, hoping for Kire, Theo, or Mayline to make a surprise appearance, someone he could ask about what was happening to him.
Was it Svel? She had said the Hunger wasnât her, not exactly, but he had no idea if he could actually trust her. She wanted him to succeed in her mission, but he was beginning to worry what success looked like to her.
When the pain in his stomach eased, he left the mess hall to find the sun high in the sky at its midday point. He sought out the courtyard, once again hoping for Ghost, but was relieved to at least find Specter, making his rounds through the training equipment.
Daniel approached the silent hunter, clearing his throat to get the manâs attention.
Specter rounded, a sliver of dark skin and bright eyes visible between his hood and cloak, a lower piece of fabric pulled up and over his mouth by a clasp on the cloak hooking the fabric together.
âCould you train me to use a weapon?â
Specter tilted his head in consideration, then stepped back from the row of weapons in front of him, gesturing broadly at them. An invitation to choose.
âGhost started me with a bow, I guess Iâll keep trying at that,â Daniel answered, his scars twitching at his indifference, at his lack of passion and direction. But he had no better choice and Specter nodded, looking to the racks of bows.
Daniel grabbed the one Ghost had gotten for him that first day, a small curvy thing that was easier to draw than her massive longbow. Specter tucked a gloved hand into his cloak and pulled out a silver coin, tapping it once then staring Daniel down.
Ghostâs companion wasnât as good-natured, he realized, but he could hardly blame him. Everyone needed to eat. Daniel reached down into his pocket, pulling out one of the velvet pouches heâd gotten with his first payment. Heâd consolidated his currencies, carrying them with him in hopes of paying Ghost back, and fetched a silver coin, passing it over.
Specter pocketed it and picked up a training recurve bow, then exited the simple armory and approached the glyph rings. Daniel followed and they ascended to the upper ring, the location vacant today.
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Daniel didnât need to be an archer to understand how talented Specter was with a bow. The hunter wasted no time showing off or taking needless shots, but the few times he demonstrated technique, the flow of his draw was smoother than a pane of glass, not a shot missed from the dead center of his aim.
Ghost had been competent, he realized, probably trained by Specter based on their companionship, but Daniel got the feeling he was watching shots hundreds of years in the making every time the cloaked man pulled his arm back.
The training was different, aside from the silence. Specter couldnât vocalize his expertise, but he made it known through nods, headshakes, and pokes of his fingers. His first assault on Danielâs shortcomings was his form. The hunter mercilessly picked and prodded at the muscles in Danielâs arms and back, tapping and tugging until he was drawing strength from the right back muscles, holding his forearm at the right angle.
The second difference in training was the ability to see his trainer. Ghost had shown him her form up close, but the need to keep a hand on her to see her made the process difficult. Specter forced Daniel to crawl around the arena and watch proper form from every angle, every height. The training was a gift not just in how to shoot a bow, but how to track a rain of arrows. It was a physics lesson as much as it was a physical training session.
The final difference was Specter shot at Daniel. Near the end of the session, his teacher had taken to directing him to loop around the arena. He ran loops around the shifting platforms, struggling to make the jumps while flinching as arrows flew at him. The hunter was kind enough to never hit him, the dulled arrows bouncing off the platforms near his feet and hands, only occasionally flicking him on a rebound. But each clip right next to his flesh was a silent warning.
âYouâd be dead now.â
His only true success in this final stretch was a tuck and roll from a higher platform jump, a last minute change in his departing stance rolling him an entire foot away from Specterâs arrow on the landing platform. His reward was a silent applaud and another round.
By the time the sun set, Daniel was still a poor shot. His arms and back ached, his forearm bruised and tender. But he had hit more than one target, he had dodge a single arrow, and Specter gave him a pat on the shoulder before departing from the upper platform, leaving Daniel alone on the training ring.
He sat up there alone for awhile, contemplating the beautiful night sky while massaging his tender arms. The torture device, or beginnerâs recurve bow, as Ghost had called it, sat a few feet away, taunting him.
The scars on his left hand burned, and he fetched the rib from under his shirt. Svel appeared when he touched it.
âBetter. But that was a pretty pathetic display.â
Daniel couldnât find the words to answer her after the nightmare that morning, so he moved as if to slot the rib back in its sheath, though a part of him wanted to hear her out.
âDonât try and bluff with me,â Svel huffed, sitting opposite of him with her legs crossed. âIf youâd like to be an archer, wish for it. I can share my mastery of archery.â
Daniel shook his head. âThereâs a better use for the wish, Iâm sure of it. I can learn to use a weapon.â
âThink you can learn before you starve to death? Or are you betting on a winning smile and strangers taking care of you?â
Daniel leaned back on his palms, dislodged grit from the rocky platform poking into his skin, while the rib rested on his lap. He didnât like looking at it, not after what he did to it, not that the bone bore any marks from his bite.
âWhatâd you mean by âtry writing with the ribâ?â he asked, thinking back to her praise and reward for the bandit kill.
âBad question.â Irritation wrinkled her nose in distaste and she sauntered to the edge of the platform, peering over the edge.
âWhat should I try writing?â
âWorse question,â she scoffed, lifting a bare foot to stamp on the glyph ring. âChrist, Daniel, apply yourself.â
As Daniel pondered why an otherworldly god would reference Jesus Christ, she smashed the ring, teleporting him back to the empty courtyard. From far above he heard a high pitch squeal that grew in volume. Svel plummeted from the sky.
âWooohoooo!â she cried, gleeful, slamming into the ground in front of him and landing in a practiced crouch. Dust and rock shuddered and scattered, the plates of stone beneath her cracking on impact. âOh, oops,â she muttered and swiped the stone with foot, the material mending beneath her.
Then her glowing eyes returned to him, and she poked a clawed finger at his chest. âMy favorite is strawberries.â
With that new riddle, she disappeared, leaving a sore and tired Daniel to slink back to his room.